


Pyrrhic

by mrecookies



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Hate Sex, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:25:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrecookies/pseuds/mrecookies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They both have issues, and their immature way of dealing with each other is to do this.</p>
<p>(Inspired by Richard Siken: <i>The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I'm alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling, and they're only a few steps behind you.</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pyrrhic

**Author's Note:**

> 30 days writing challenge, round 3, prompt #14 (ambivalence: simultaneous, conflicted feelings towards a thing, person, etc) and prompt #15 ([quote](http://www.goodreads.com/quotes_of_the_day/591)).
> 
> One day I will write Jackson/Stiles without resorting to hatesex. This is not that day. I also apologise for my attempt at dirty talk.

"Just so you know," Stiles manages to snarl as the buttons on his shirt go flying all over the bed, not missing a beat despite the sickening cliche, "I hate you."

"I know."

He hates the way Jackson's mouth curls up into a smirk, the way Jackson presses his hands onto Stiles's skin like he _owns_ Stiles somehow, and especially the way Jackson looks like he could devour Stiles whole. So he pushes the other guy down onto the bed, ignoring the small huff and the triumphant grin, and sets his fingers to work, divesting Jackson of his expensive belt and his expensive jeans. Stiles talks, bitching about anything and everything just because he can—he _hates_ the way he needs and wants, so he covers it up by throwing clothes over the edge of the bed and doesn't stop chattering through his trembling hands.

Jackson doesn't help; he kisses the pads of Stiles's fingertips gently, then sucks one in, looking up from under his eyelashes at Stiles. It's hard to breathe like that, and Stiles _struggles_ , sitting astride Jackson's lap while the other guy fucking moans around Stiles's fingers in his mouth.

"You like that, huh?" The babbling goes on, and Stiles isn't even trying to police his thoughts anymore, the thin brain-to-mouth filter totally disappearing, and this is probably not the best course of action, but it's the one he's taking goddamnit, and oh. Because there's two now, two of Stiles's fingers in Jackson's wet hot mouth, and Stiles _can't shut up_. "I bet you could fit another one in your mouth; could you fit another one in your mouth and I guess I got that answer pretty quick, _fuck_. No, don't—don't look at me like that, no—god, you sound amazing, all those slurpy sounds and so wet and all for me; fuck, _Jackson_." The name comes out as a hiss as Jackson runs his teeth along the damp skin of Stiles's fingers.

Jackson looks slightly annoyed when he says, "I'm going to fuck you now, Stilinski. Until your pretty little mouth gets so worn out, you'll be unable to say anything but moan my name."

It's an opening, Stiles realizes, because he let go of himself moments earlier, and the anger returns so easy, sliding over him in a heartbeat. "Yeah right," he scoffs, purposely grinding down onto Jackson's dick and earning himself a harsh smack on his left hip, "I'd like to see you try, asshole."

He gets flipped over onto his back, manhandled with bruising pulls and pushes until he's right where Jackson wants him to be, bent nearly in half with his feet in the air. It's _thrilling_ to be this exposed, and he rides the adrenaline even as he opens himself up with fingers slick with saliva and lube. Stiles keeps up a running commentary and watches as Jackson jerks off in between his thighs; a shiver runs up his spine when Jackson does that smirk again and joins in, adding a finger to Stiles's two, stretching Stiles open and ready, and making Stiles fucking _whine_.

"I hate you," Stiles says, panting as Jackson lines himself up. He feels the head of Jackson's cock nudging his entrance, and _keens_ , desperately cupping a hand around the back of Jackson's neck to pull him down for a biting kiss. They fight like that for a few moments, petty nips to each other's lips, Stiles gasping for air every time Jackson's cock brushes against his inner thighs. "I hate you."

"I know," Jackson replies smugly—Stiles really fucking _hates_ it—and shoves himself in.


End file.
